скачать книгу бесплатно
“Who is Gilchrist?”
“Gilchrist Mackintosh, Iain’s younger brother. And a handsomer lad ye’ve ne’er seen. Except for my Will, of course.”
Both of them jumped as a crash of timber sounded from the stable yard. All at once men were shouting over the angry snorts and distressed cries of a horse. Alena moved quickly to the window and looked out.
A black stallion rampaged through the yard, rearing in anger against a training tether pulled tight around his neck. Duncan, and a man who looked a younger version of him, were trying, without success, to calm the distressed beast.
She was shocked to see a lad of fourteen or fifteen lurking dangerously close to the rearing steed. Duncan waved him off but the lad would not give ground.
“Who is that boy, Hetty?”
“Saints preserve us! That’s Conall Mackintosh, the laird’s youngest brother.”
The stallion reared again, and the boy inched closer. Without another thought Alena shot from the room, barefoot, raced down the staircase and burst outside. The black reared again. The boy ducked under the steed’s hooves and tried to grab the bridle.
“Conall!” The voice was Iain’s, but he was nowhere in sight. “Move away, lad!”
The boy ignored his brother’s command. The stallion bucked as Duncan jerked on the tether. A crowd gathered around them, frightening the beast into greater frenzy. Conall moved in and reached for the bridle.
She knew the steed would rear.
“Boy, you’re too close!” She shot forward and grabbed him. Conall stumbled backward, and they both tripped to the ground. For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d been too late. The stallion crashed to earth, his powerful hooves landing inches from the boy’s head.
There was no time. She could see in the stallion’s eyes that he would rear again. She scrambled to her feet, unsheathed her dirk and cut the training tether. He was free. In a smooth motion that was second nature to her, she grasped the steed’s mane and pulled herself onto his bare back. A split second later he lurched ahead.
There was only the one thing she did well, and this was it.
Without benefit of tether or bridle, she guided the black in a wide circuit around the stable yard. The tensed muscles of his neck relaxed as she stroked his sweat-drenched coat and whispered words of comfort into his ear. In seconds he’d calmed to her voice and touch.
Duncan scooped Conall from the dirt and bore him safely out of the way. She glanced briefly at the old man and shrugged.
“Weel, I’ll be damned,” he said, and stroked his silvered beard.
This was not how she’d intended to start her day.
She slowed the stallion to a walk. ’Twas then she noticed Iain standing alone at the stable yard gate, the crowd parted around him. She had the distinct impression he was not happy with her actions.
His face flamed red as an autumn apple. His eyes were live coals. Even at ten paces she could see the tendons tightening in his neck.
Jesu, what would he have had her do? Stand by helpless? She met his gaze, and what she read there unnerved her far more than had the incident with the stallion. She was barely aware of Duncan helping her down from the horse and leading him away.
In three steps Iain covered the distance between them and stood glaring down at her, hands fisted at his sides. She forced herself to not move. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face.
Before she could say anything, he turned abruptly toward his brother Conall who leaned casually against the fence. Iain grabbed him by the collar and near dragged him toward the house. “Hamish! Will! To me. Now!” he bellowed.
The small crowd that had gathered burst into a cacophony of laughter and general chatter. Words of praise—and chastisement—were shouted in her direction. Aye, she supposed it was stupid of her. Both she and the boy could have been hurt.
Duncan, along with the other man who had helped him with the stallion, appeared at her side and led her to a bench by the water trough. She was more shook up than she’d first realized. She collapsed on the wooden seat.
“There, there, lass. Ye did a fine job.” Duncan rested a hand paternally on her shoulder.
“The boy,” she said. “Is he all right?”
“Conall? Dinna worry yourself about him. More than likely he’s wishin’ he was back under the black’s hooves.”
She frowned, and the other man laughed. “Aye,” he said. “Iain’s givin’ him a thrashin’ he’ll no’ soon forget.”
“He wouldn’t hurt him?” She’d never seen Iain so angry, yet she suspected a goodly portion of his wrath was reserved for her.
“Weel,” Duncan said, fingering his beard, “Conall may no’ sit much for the next day or two. But nay, lass, he wouldna truly hurt him.”
“Aye,” the younger man said. “He loves that boy like a son.”
“When their da was killed,” Duncan said, “’twas Iain who raised the lad, and the other, as well.”
“Gilchrist, you mean.”
“Aye. They’re both fine, braw laddies. Thanks to Iain.”
The younger man knelt beside her. “Are ye all right? Can I draw ye some water from the well?”
“My thanks, but nay.” His concern touched her. She pressed her hand lightly on his arm. “I’m well.”
“More afeared o’ the laird than that stallion, I’ll wager.” Duncan’s voice was primed with amusement.
“Aye, you have that right.”
“Och, dinna worry, lass. He’ll come ’round. He’s a stubborn one, and as much as I love him he can be dumb as a stone sometimes.” Duncan shot her a meaningful look, but she had no idea what he was trying to tell her.
More than anything, she wanted to ask him how it was he knew her surname, but she preferred to wait until they were alone. She turned to the younger man. “My name is Alena.”
“Aye, so I’ve heard. I’m called Gavin.”
“Gavin,” she repeated.
“My son.” Duncan beamed a smile and slapped the young man on the back.
Before she could comment on the resemblance, Hamish appeared, towering over them, a huge grin on his face. “Lady,” he said, “I’m to escort ye back to the house.”
Iain’s instructions, no doubt. No matter. She was starved and had had enough excitement for one morning. Her conversation with Duncan would have to wait. It seemed whatever he knew about her, he had kept it to himself.
Or had he?
She recalled Iain’s bloodred face.
She rose and accepted the warrior’s arm. “Lead the way, Hamish. I’m so famished I could devour a horse.”
He grinned down at her, blue eyes flashing mirth. “I thought ye just had.”
Alena spent the afternoon exploring the Davidson stronghold and meeting the clanfolk who lived there. The incident with the stallion had spread like wildfire, and those she met eyed her with no small amount of suspicion.
Hamish never left her side—not for one moment. Iain’s orders. She hadn’t seen him since that morning and caught herself more than once wondering where he was and what he was doing.
Beyond the stable lay the archery butts and a large training ground where the clan’s warriors honed their battle skills. These were Iain’s own additions to the Davidson demesne, Hamish told her. The place was a bustle of activity that afternoon, and Hamish barred her entrance from the area.
He was probably there.
Just as well. After witnessing Iain’s rage that morning, Alena wasn’t sure she was ready for a chance meeting just yet. Besides, she had no desire to cut short her afternoon excursion.
In every place they walked, from the kitchens at the main lodge to the farrier’s to the brew house, she spied odd stashes of weapons: broadswords, longbows with sheaves of arrows, double-headed axes, and dirks of every variety. Braedûn Lodge looked more like an armory than an estate. When she questioned Hamish about the weapons he just shrugged and said “’twas Iain’s doing.”
She recalled the arms Iain bore while hunting—two swords, a longbow, two dirks that she could see, and probably others that lay hidden on his person.
What did it all mean?
She knew not, but had a bad feeling about it. After exhausting Hamish with a bevy of questions he didn’t answer, and when the sun dipped low in the sky, she returned to her chamber to ready herself for supper.
Hetty’s attempt to coax her into donning a more lavish gown failed. The borrowed pale green wool suited her fine. ’Twas simple and reasonably comfortable, though tight about the bodice. She resisted Hetty’s bid to coif her hair, and wore it loose about her, as always, a wild tumble of honey-gold cascading to her hips.
Raucous chatter rose from the great hall as she descended the staircase to join her hosts. Or jailers. She wasn’t sure which to call them. Alena stopped near the bottom step and searched the crowd for familiar faces.
There were eight or ten tables filled with people, many of whom she had met that afternoon. Most were attired in the Davidson plaid. What few Mackintosh clansmen there were stood out among the rest.
The table closest to the hearth was raised on a dais, so the men seated there were visible to everyone in the room. Iain sat at the head, flanked by Conall on his left and another young man dressed in Mackintosh colors on his right. Hamish and Will sat farther down with a number of other warriors who sported the Davidson tartan.
Hamish smiled broadly at her while Will bore his usual, puppy-dog expression. Only Iain scowled, and when Alena met his gaze she lifted her chin in provocation. Perhaps ’twas the gown that irritated him.
The young warrior seated to Iain’s right stood and extended his hand. “Lady Alena,” he called out, “will ye join us?”
He was nearly as tall as Iain, but not as well-muscled. He had Iain’s strong features and the same stormy eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Iain was dark, with wild chestnut hair, and a brooding sort of expression. This man was blond, like her, and wore a dazzling, almost dangerous smile. He looked as if he could charm a lass right out of her shift. She was mildly shocked at her own bold appraisal of him. He could only be one man—Iain’s brother, Gilchrist.
She made her way to the dais, took the young warrior’s proffered hand, and a moment later found herself seated between him and Iain. A half dozen men offered their drinking horns. Not sure how to respond, she looked to Iain. Their eyes locked, but a sour expression ruled his face. He snatched his own goblet from the table and placed it in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said, and lifted the ale cup to her lips.
The blond warrior turned to her and said, “I am Gilchrist, second son of Colum Mackintosh.”
So, she’d been right. Hetty’s description of him was accurate. “I am happy to meet you, Gilchrist,” she said.
Across the table young Conall sat, transfixed, staring openly at her. His boyish good looks reminded her of the young Iain. A rush of tenderness overwhelmed her. She smiled at the lad and he nearly fell off the bench. Iain shot him a disgusted smirk.
“What’s the matter, Conall, laddie, have ye ne’er seen a lady before?” Gilchrist said.
“Never one so fair, truth be told.”
Iain snorted and muttered something under his breath Alena could not make out.
Gilchrist slid closer along the bench. “Nor have I.” To her astonishment, he covered her hand, which rested lightly on the table, with his own.
Aye, Hetty was doubly right. This one was a rogue.
“Enough!” Iain smashed his fist onto the table, causing trenchers and goblets to jump. Like lightning, Gilchrist removed his hand from hers.
Delight shivered up her spine at Iain’s overwrought response to his brother’s harmless flirtation. She fought to maintain a serious expression, but felt the corners of her mouth edge upward. She dared not look at Iain, and turned instead toward the other end of the table.
Hamish rubbed a beefy paw over his face, trying without success to squelch his laughter. The other warriors at the table, Mackintosh and Davidson alike, seemed vastly amused by the little scene.
’Twas time to break the ice.
She turned and caught Iain staring at her. He instantly dropped his eyes and feigned a healthy interest in the trencher of venison that rested before him.
“Iain, I—”
“All save a few call me Laird—but I shall allow ye to call me Iain, if ye wish.” He speared a hunk of meat with his dirk and raised it to his mouth.
Good God, he was arrogant. Mayhap the insufferable boy she remembered lived still inside the man.
“And you may call me Alena,” she shot back.
He halted his attack on the venison in midbite and looked at her with a kind of surprise. He started to speak but then changed his mind, his mouth opening and closing a few times—much like a trout.
Now was clearly not a good time to provoke him. They ate in silence for a while, then she thought to try again at conversation. “Your uncle is laird here?”
“Aye,” Iain said. “He is The Davidson.”
“Yet you sit at the head of his table.”
“In his absence I am responsible for his clan and his lands.”
This surprised her. “Has he no son—or daughter,” she couldn’t help adding, “to lead in his stead?”
Iain looked directly at her. “Nay. Alistair and Margaret have no issue. When Gilchrist is of age, he will be laird here.”
“But he is a Mackintosh. Surely the Davidsons will protest.”
Iain smiled—more to himself than to her, as if remembering something. “Gilchrist is a Davidson and a Mackintosh. He was raised here and is well loved by my mother’s clan. Nay, they will accept him. They already do.”
He nodded toward Gilchrist who was engaged in telling some bawdy joke to the Davidson clansmen at the other end of the table.
“I see what you mean. And what of you, Iain Mackintosh? Where lies your future?”
For the second time in as many days his eyes reached into her soul. “Elsewhere,” he breathed.
Jesu, but the man had a power over her she could not explain. In truth, he always had. She wet her lips as he held her in a gaze so intense, so personal, she felt both the strength and the will to break away slip from her.
The sounds of the diners faded from her perception as he leaned in close. His face hovered inches from hers. She tilted her chin toward him, her lips parting of their own accord in some dreamlike expectation.
A deafening hurrah shattered her momentary enchantment and she turned to see half a dozen clansmen on their feet, horns and goblets raised. They were toasting her, she realized, and quickly collected herself.
